The Rules of Home
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: The breaths that he emits are short and low but his eyes continue to shine, seemingly absorbing every point of illumination in the darkened entryway. "And how lucky for me, for me, that some anonymous Afghani perched on an anonymous hill missed his target."


Thank you to Robyn for all of her assistance.

The rest of my fic (mainly explicit Sherlock/John) is up at Archive of Our Own under the same pen name.

* * *

Thirty-six hours without sleep and Sherlock is pacing the flat without a pattern, back and forth, to the kitchen, loo, out through John's window to the rooftop and back to the sitting room. After three hours between the left sitting room window and right sitting room window, John snaps. "No more... wingtips. You're in the flat, you can spare a moment to slip your shoes back on if you're going out."

"We've no idea when-"

"Stop, you're... you're working yourself into a right lather and it would make me feel better if you'd just-" But at the exclamation of 'would make me feel better' Sherlock begins toeing off his ridiculously expensive loafers. He kicks them carefully side-by-side beneath the coffee table.

John simply stands back and makes a very good attempt at not being agape but fails fairly spectacularly. Sherlock takes no notice, instead straightening his spine and getting back to his pacing in what appeared to be navy blue, socks with small white polka dots on them. It isn't an overtly-whimsical feature, but it does make John raise a brow.

Generally the consulting detective sticks to strict navy and black, brown only when the suit fits the color, which is not often. This particular item of clothing seems so starkly out of place on his body that a tiny little "Huh," accompanies the brow raise.

"Something to add?" Sherlock asks, not petulantly, rather expectantly.

In the kitchen, John presses on the tea kettle. From his vantage point he can just make out the shiny toes of Sherlock's shoes, winking at him from beneath the living room table. A startling warmth spreads through John at the sight of them, at knowing that Sherlock has heeded his wish and has comforted himself by removing his shoes and revealing his silly little socks. This flat might be a home yet. A place where they both felt comfortable to be completely who they were, dressed down.

Dressed up.

Dressed however they damn-well please.

John finds himself wondering what other socks Sherlock has in his repertoire. "Oh no, no no. Will you be partaking or?"

"Two cups, please," Sherlock requests, re-steeples his fingers beneath his nose and dedicates himself fully to wearing a track in the rug.

"Jumpers, John. It's twelve degrees, let's cast those out, shall we? They're ridiculous and make you look thick in the middle." The fingers that tug at the shoulder of his sweater are insistent though not entirely expectant; they drop off after a moment, when Sherlock takes a large step back to regard him.

"Are you, jesus, you still have a blazer on. It's nine in the evening you idiot. Take off the blazer and have some dinner!" John has been cooking for the better part of an hour and even so, he hasn't found the need to abandon his thick, woolen sweater. More of a habitual comfort blanket than anything, it's nearly a second skin. "Beside, this is fairly thin, so... set the table."

The detective stands agape in the entryway to the kitchen as though he can't believe the words that John has uttered.

"Pattypan squash risotto with roast duck Sherlock, set the table or you go hungry this evening." John stirs another ladleful of stock into the pan of arborio rice. "On second thought, there's a can of minestrone soup just there in the cupboard, probably been here since you moved into the place but..."

The familiar clatter-clank of plate against plate halts John's speech and he smiles to himself, shaking in a handful of asiago, stirring with care. Once the idea of one of John's carefully-prepared dinners is dangled before him it's nearly impossible to Sherlock to ignore it; often times he'll slink about the kitchen, watch as the doctor mixes and measures, adds dashes of this and that.

Sherlock had on one momentous occasion actually groaned in pleasure while consuming John's very simple (simple to him, he supposed) steak au poive and the doctor had floated around on a buffer of pride for the following three days, before Sherlock cut his intelligence down once again and burst the bubble.

Still, John enjoys these moments when he can, his cooking habit serving not only to inflate his ego but also fill and sate his flatmate into some semblance of nourishment. He glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, who has managed to locate the cloth napkins that they keep for occasions such as these.

Contrary to popular belief, the inhabitants of 221B keep a bit of good china, sets of heavy, sturdy cutlery, crystal wine glasses and actual, thick linen place mats. The fact that they generally only have time for takeaway renders these housewares often times moot, but it's a special occasion indeed when the meal calls for all the dressings. "Salad forks?" Sherlock asks delicately and John considers.

"I can probably toss something up, that spinach is still good, yeah?"

Sherlock nods and steps up to the cupboard where they store the glassware. "I'm going to open that bottle the Llyod's left us after the-"

"Sherlock, that's a three-hundred dollar bottle of-"

"When else will we drink it?" he huffs and disappears to retrieve the bottle.

The eat their meal in relative silence, Sherlock taking the most time he possibly can, fitting down every last bite; it's almost too much, when he licks the fork entirely clean. As John places down his fork and swirls his wine in his glass he notes Sherlock's eyelids drooping and deems his new risotto recipe a success.

It's a simple observation, really. "Sherlock, I do not understand how you somehow manage to keep your room spotless and yet the sitting room, the _kitchen_ for christ's sake is a disaster area."

John has been in Sherlock's room many times. To retrieve a scarf left on the bed, to pick up his washing, to wake him in the evening when he's insisted on taking a kip "lasting no more than ninety minutes!" They don't exactly have boundaries set for one another's rooms, but it goes without saying that they only enter the other's out of some necessity.

Sherlock deems it necessary to wake John from slumber at least twice a week, finds it necessary to nick his pillows because "They're firmer, John!," feels it necessary to sometimes just sit in the middle of John's modest full bed and have a think.

And while John's room is military-neat, Sherlock's is Spartan in its well-organized chaos. There are many, many things in Sherlock's room but they all have their place and harmonize to make it appear all quite minimal.

Which is the precise reason that John cannot comprehend why Sherlock leaves the rest of the flat in such disarray. John bends to glance at the wasteland of test tubes that the kitchen table has become and finds a small corner that isn't capitalized, lays his plate of toast on it while he goes about making coffee.

"John," comes Sherlock's lazy voice from by the sink, "This is not _disaster_; everything is in it's proper place, arranged in such a way to be most beneficial to my work."

"Right then, but with all of this clutter, don't you think, oh, I don't know, that one of your experiments might be compromised? What's it if I happen to wash out an Erlenmeyer flask you're using or spill tea all over a sheet of figures?"

"Don't be insipid," Sherlock drawls, plucking up a small test tube amongst it's fallen brethren. "I trust you amongst this, why else would I just _leave it all over_ as you so gracelessly put it."

John is halted in his breakfast preparations. That's rather sweet, when John thinks about it. And John thinks about Sherlock's predilections more than he cares to admit to himself. Just the other evening found him wondering what Sherlock's past flatmates must have been like because when John gets right down to it, the man's eccentricities are actually what makes him so interesting, as insane as they are. He wonders sometimes how many people wouldn't put up with this and he thinks about how awfully wasted he himself would feel if he was ever to go without all of this _clutter_.

It says a lot about him, the military man, properly British, liking things neat and tidy and in their place. Turns out, he just likes Sherlock _more_ than he likes tidiness. Which is saying _quite_ a lot, he supposes."Does that mean if I start flailing about all willy nilly you'll be more likely to tidy all of this up?"

Sherlock turns to glance at him, gaze withering. "John..."

Sherlock bathes, often and with great care. He has oils and soaps that he'll pour into the warm water, leave the entire flat smelling of mint or freesia or chamomile. He'll steep himself in the water for hours and hours, emerging so languid and relaxed that John thinks he might be able to mold him as though clay.

John is washing up the mugs from their morning tea when he hears the tap begin running, the water pounding the floor of the tub; the tub itself is larger than John had seen in any flat in London, upon moving into 221B. Not claw footed but rooted to the floor, long and deep, ivory porcelain surrounded by a gauzy, emerald curtain. It's large enough that John could actually manage to lay out full length in it, submerge his entire body.

When he'd asked Mrs. Hudson about it's bizarre size she's mentioned that the previous tenant had had it refit; he'd been a middle-aged gentleman with severe rheumatoid arthritis who had taken it upon himself to have the bathroom redone. Mrs. Hudson hadn't minded; he'd paid for it all out of pocket.

"Oh but that was ages and ages ago," she'd mentioned. "Is it cracking? Oh, do I need to have it seen to?"

"No, no," John had said, "I just find it... odd. It's not every flat I've seen with a tub that a grown man can lay out in."

Now, Sherlock pads from the bathroom and into the sitting room in his dressing gown and slippers; John catches sight of his thighs as he retreats and John snaps his attention back to the suds at hand.

"I'll be in there for awhile," Sherlock mentions. "Only interrupt if necessary."

John rolls his eyes and smiles; it's something that Sherlock has warned him at all. "I'll need to shave before my shift this evening."

Sherlock's blink is slow, brow wrinkling; he still looks sleepy and rumpled, proving to John once again that a grown man can be called 'adorable' and it can be a good thing. "You look fine."

"Sherlock," John huffs, "I either go full beard or no beard because intermittently I look ridiculous; I'm shaving."

Sherlock rolls his eyes as well. "If you must but do try and wait until I'm through."

"Don't take four hours, then."

It's two hours later when John is forced to rap his knuckles against the wood; Sherlock's answering grunt is barely audible, but the doctor pushes open the door anyway. Immediately, he's hit by a cloud of humid, spearmint-scented air.

"Pruny?" John laughs, doing very well in avoiding looking at his flatmate in the bath.

"Very," Sherlock responds and blinks open his eyes to look up at John. He makes no move to shut the curtain or cover himself. There are no bubbles in the bath and therefore nothing to hide the detective's nudity. The hand that John lifts to open the medicine cabinet shakes _just so_.

John prepares his shaving foam and rolls up his shirtsleeves; it's a practiced ritual and he takes his time, not rushing for the sake of the man lounging in the tub. After a few minutes, the atmosphere becomes less awkward and more natural. "Think you'll sleep this evening?" The first swipe of the razor cuts through the foam and fine hairs along John's cheek easily.

The is a splish from the vicinity of the tub. "Perhaps."

"That's good," they're silent for a time, the only sounds the thin, pleasant sluicing of sharp metal against skin and the gentle lapping of water at the sides of the tub. "That tub is big enough for two people," John mentions, as he dips his razor beneath the tap to rinse it of foam. "I had a few girlfriends who always wanted to attempt the 'taking a bath together' lark, never quite worked."

Another splish. "Hmmm?"

John runs he razor over his upper lip. "Tub was never large enough."

Sherlock doesn't miss a beat. "This tub is." His voice is dark and rich and thick with emotion; John can't stand it. The hands beneath the faucet still; John has to suck in a breath through his teeth as he rinses his face. When he turns to Sherlock he doesn't bother with subterfuge; his gaze roves over Sherlock's form beneath the sheath of cloudy water.

John pulls a towel over his face, replaces it properly on the towel rack and gives Sherlock one last glance. "Noted."

John smells mint for days and days.  
-

The washing is left for Saturdays and Sundays, whenever John can find the free time. He manages separating the whites and the colors and puts in the requisite powder and folds it all into the dryer when he's done. John does not fold Sherlock's clothing, instead putting it in a large heap in a basket when he leaves on the floor in front of Sherlock's door.

Sherlock deals with their dry cleaning. He'd been surprised at find that John owned so many cashmere jumpers that required extra care and he was more than happy to lump them in with his bespoke pieces. It's an easy sort of chore and neither one of them complains about it.

It's not a particular Saturday, there's nothing important about the day until John is going through his cursory examination of pockets (after the incident with the chapstick he's extra vigilant) when he finds a folded up slip of newspaper in the pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown.

Thumb against forefinger, he flicks it open. It's a photograph of him in profile, taken at a crime scene somewhere. He recalled the headline which had fallen under it, "The Blogger: Do They Or Don't They?" and how Lestrade had given the two of them a bit of shit over it all.

The edges are slightly oily from touch and wear, the paper darker in the void surround John's head. There is no headline clipped out, just a shot of john in profile, looking off into the distance, probably towards something that Sherlock had at the time been pointing out. John supposes it's suspicious that Sherlock has obviously been keeping this with him for some time, and to find it in his dressing gown, to tote around a photograph of John while he's at home, well.

John should be suspicious but what he truly finds _suspicious_ is the strong pitch his stomach takes, dropping to the vicinity of his knees and how his mouth goes dry and his heart thunders maniacally in his chest. John feels full to bursting. John blinks down at his image, catching him and keeping him static in excitement.

He folds it carefully back in two, slips it into his back pocket and loads the washing in efficiently.

John weaves his way out of 221C (no longer habitable, only the laundry room and space for extra storage) and up the steps, back to the flat, encloses himself in the warm space just as Sherlock pads out of his room, eyes darting back and forth.

"Dressing gown?" he asks blearily. Sherlock is bare-chested and sleep warm.

"In the wash," John says, reaches into his pocket and holds out the folded up clipping. "Left this in it."

Sherlock takes it with a steady hand, meets John's gaze and presses it be between his fingers. "Thank you." The detective makes no explanation, just holds the paper and watches John as he takes a seat by the hearth with the newspaper.

John enters the flat, weary, clutching the shopping (lettuce, milk, a six pack he intends to drink at least three bottles from) when Sherlock has him crowded against the door. The man's a whirlwind and John is shocked that he has it within him to calm himself before dropping the shopping and attacking the man. "John, I'm going to kiss you and if you've any objections please state them plainly... right now." Hands in pockets, face in profile, totally matter of fact. "I however doubt that you have any objections regarding the matter as I've given it some... thought."

Very glad indeed that he hadn't dropped the shopping as he'd no idea what to do with his hands, John attempts to speak, once, twice. On the third attempt he manages some broken syllables. "Wha- why?" comes the gasped question. John is lucky to get one word out, his brain having tripped and stopped entirely at the words that leave Sherlock's mouth, at the strength and conviction threaded through.

Sherlock's eyes are gleaming and he passes his tongue over his lips, preparing to speak. His mouths opens and then closes and finally, with the slightest of smiles, he begins. "It's there, always, this urge, these feelings and I will myself to believe I've forever to figure out where to place them... but I don't." Sherlock blinks and took the bags from John's hands, sets them on the floor with all the care he can muster. "And neither do you."

Bright eyes shine beneath a curtain of fringe but John can't bear to step forward and acquiesce. There's more to this than what Sherlock is making of it, of course there is but now isn't the moment to articulate them. Certainly not in the foyer of Baker Street while John grasps rapidly warming dairy products in his hands. "Sherlock, this shouldn't be due to some misplaced belief that I'll... I'll leave. It shouldn't be..." John takes a measured careful moment to consider exactly what he means to say.

Before he can put voice to thought, Sherlock is speaking. "Mycroft forwarded me your discharge report; I did not request it but he thought it best to know the extent of... your... of you. The prognosis from the field hospital in Kabul and the recount of your injury. The blood and the stitches, how they had to shock your heart to revive you not once but _twice_…I've had hours to think on never having met you, John. I've had hours to consider what the bullet would have done to your guts or heart or brain. The damage that could have been incurred; a .45 shot from that range could have done awful things to your lungs, punctured kidneys or bladder."

The breaths that he emits are short and low but his eyes continue to shine, seemingly absorbing every point of illumination in the darkened entryway. "And how lucky for me, for _me_, that some anonymous Afghani perched on an anonymous hill missed his target."

A thick swallow is John's answer and he finds himself backing away, just slightly, from Sherlock's penetrating gaze. He's silent because it's true, it's all true; he's never felt luckier in his life. When John thinks about his scar, about hot metal piercing his flesh he thinks it was a _godsend_ and then about how genuinely fucked up thinking that at all is. "That's... awfully selfish of you."

Sherlock blinks, self-deprecatingly and takes a hesitant glance down at his shoes. "Well."

Blinking too, John bends to pick up the shopping and shifts until his toes touch the tips of Sherlock's. "I'll never leave you," a whisper, desperate. And it's a shocking admission, truly. John, giving Sherlock his life in one sentence. John promising a forever; he presses his lips to Sherlock's jaw, briefly. "I've got to put the shopping away."

John sidesteps him and mounts the stairs, his pace neither hurried nor slow.

Still, it isn't enough.

They're running out of reserves in their budget for cabs but still, they're seated across from one another headed toward Marylebone when Sherlock decides that he simply has to speak. "You've made my life considerably less dull," comes Sherlock's assertion as he folds his thick, leather gloves in his lap.

"You don't get to talk to me like that," John states plainly, glancing out the window at the passing landscape of London. "Not like that, it's not that simple," he is matter of fact, somehow nearly cheery about telling Sherlock this.

The detective's brow furrows considerably and he scowls. "Isn't that what one does? To express one's... desires?"

John sighs, "No, not when it's you and I Sherlock, certainly not in the back of a cab en route to view a decapitation, alright? This goes beyond a bit not good, this is plainly _bad_."

Sherlock shifts and tugs on his gloves, pressing the fingers of the opposite hands into the vees between his fingers. After a quick, perturbed sniff, he raises his gaze to John's. "Back at the flat, then?"

"Yes," John says, "That would be preferable."

There is a case, a case that requires so much paper that the flat nearly buckles under the sheer magnitude of it. Files, folders, printouts cover every surface that they're so immersed in seeking out a kidnapper that they rarely have time to ponder on the conversation that they need to have.

But as John makes tidy piles out of the sheaf of rubble, he spares small moments to let his heart fill with possibilities. It's quite easy to do, once he opens himself to it. John Watson has realizes some things over the past few months. He's realized he's well-close to forty years old and very, very single with a fairly well-paying job and a mad flatmate and he feels bright and alive, humming with a vibrant purpose. And if, if on the slight chance he went from single to taken and his mad flatmate became something more, well, he's quite sure he'll feel just as alive.

Perhaps more so. Entirely probably more so.

He ruminates on this while making the tidy piles even more tidy.

Sherlock pulls files from the organized piles and he _yearns_ and feels confused for the yearning, but yearns nonetheless. He allows and even makes cause for their fingers to brush as papers are passed, allows his gaze to linger in a way he wishes to be purposefully but turns instead wistful and impulsive.

There are necessities to take care of before they sit down and bare it all. It's simply surprising how often Sherlock shivers and shakes with the need to tell it, to lay himself out completely bare.

John makes piles, Sherlock destroys them and it take two weeks to solve the case.

The house reeks of naphtha when John returns from the surgery and he moves directly to the windows in the sitting room to throw them open. On the floor, back against the sofa, Sherlock shines his shoes. The coffee table has been kicked carelessly out of the way so that he may sit out straight, one Ferragamo shoe stretched over his right palm while the left wields a shine-stained rag effortlessly.

John's nose wrinkles as he lays out the pizza he picked up on the way home; they've not had pizza in _ages_ and this is just what John needs. He goes about grabbing some plates and napkins, sets them on the table closest to the windows while Sherlock finishes up his shoe and stands. "I am no longer... amenable to this," he says, smoothing out the wrinkles of his pants.

John pauses midway through extracting an especially cheesy piece from the pie. "...pizza?"

"This isn't enough," Sherlock says by way of explanation. "I hadn't expected a yearning, but... there's a need to know positively everything about you. Everything at all there is to know." Sherlock slinks around to his side of the table, sits heavily in the seat and plucks a piece of pizza from the box.

John is very, very quiet as he too takes a seat, bringing the slice to his mouth and then placing it down onto his plate. "The talk then, now."

Sherlock pulls at a string of cheese until it snaps, the end flicking up to stick against his wrist; distastefully he uses his thumb to smudge it down onto the plate. Thoughtfully, John takes a bite chews, nodding all the while; he makes to speak but takes another bite instead, watching Sherlock watch him. "Eat your pizza," he motions with a nod of his chin and Sherlock rolls his eyes but picks up his slice and take an enormous bite; a bite so comically large that it actually sends John into a fit of giggles.

"Eager to be through with this, then?" John laughs and as he goes to pick his slice back up, Sherlock surges across the table and kisses him on the corner of the mouth. They stand there, pressed together at the mouths for some time until Sherlock slips his mouth open just slightly and John realigns, presses both palms to the table as Sherlock's right sweeps up to tickle the hairs at the base of John's neck.

They taste of salt, tomato and it's slow and so imperfect, limbs bumping against the table, bodies rounding and finding one another, noses colliding and mouths slipping off, against, in. They're content to kiss for a time, hands on hips and in hair, slow but eager.

John is the first to break away, keeps his hand molded around the back of Sherlock's neck and presses his forehead against the other man's. They breathe together, just breathe. "Finish, finish your dinner," John says quietly, presses a delicate kiss on his right cheekbone.

John sits down.

Sherlock sits down.

They wear soft, twin smiles while they attempt not to stare at one another.

It's an agreement that they take it slow. It's more of a test on Sherlock's part really as he's decided that this is what he wants and he wants it all. Right now. They take to snogging a bit on the sofa before bed and Sherlock always twines his body hard into John's hoping for more and more and more.

It's an agreement that they take it slow but truly, it only lasts a week. John spends a double at the surgery and Sherlock spends the entire day on the sofa, hands perched beneath his chin, waiting. _Waiting_.

It's a Sunday and thus, when John comes home - not entirely haggard since he's just sucked down his third cup of coffee - he puts the snogging on hold to put in their laundry. "Won't be a tick," John mentions, leaning down to drop a tiny kiss on the tip of Sherlock's nose.

He trundles down the steps, basket in hand and sets the basket atop the dryer as he turns on the water and begins checking pockets. He makes it through three pairs of jeans before finding something in the right hand pocket of Sherlock's tapered black jeans. Plucking it out, he discovers a condom, nestled in shiny purple plastic. Out of habit he palms the left pocket and finds a small bottle of lubricant.

Immediately, John huffs a laugh and then rolls his eyes, giving up his search through pockets and dumps everything into the wash, launching himself up the steps with more energy than he should probably have at this hour.

When he tosses the door open, he's not surprised that Sherlock is wearing a small, pleased smile. "Subtle, very subtle you arse."

"Well, I did have to do something to move this along," Sherlock twisted his body into sitting and with palms on his thighs regarded John. "I'd quite like to have you now, if you'll permit." Sherlock blinks and adds, "Not just for this evening, you understand, but for the foreseeable future."

John quirks a brow and tosses the lubricant at him; he catches it easily in one hand. John is quiet, very quiet and he takes one step towards Sherlock and still, so silent.

John begins speaking and his voice is low and thick and lovely; cheeks tinged with pink and fingers shifting into fists and back. "When I think about coming home, when I'm sitting in my office and dallying over charts or I'm out for a pint and I say I'm headed home, it's not to this flat, that has nothing to do with it. It's you, with you _here_." A hand sifts through John's hair; the look he gives Sherlock is quite tethered, nearly mad.

It's achingly familiar, the way in which Sherlock glances at him. It digs in and settles in John's bones, deep into his marrow, his blood, his very _cells_. "Very poetic," Sherlock says, and John's about to interject when Sherlock continues, standing. "Would it be too much, laying it on far too thick to say that I feel quite the same about you?"

"It would not," John says, matter of fact, "In fact, it would greatly increase the chances of me taking you to bed."

Sherlock smiles on an exhale and tongues at John's ear. "In that case, you, Doctor John Hamish Watson, former of the Royal Army Medical Corp," he says the last bit quite quickly and in jest. "Former of Sussex-"

John laughs, "Enough, enough."

"You are my home, now take me to _bed_," Sherlock's voice is rough with arousal and amusement.

John laughs full stop and gathers Sherlock into a tight hug. "Oh this is going to be awful and awkward and, oh god, let's go."

"Undress me with your teeth," Sherlock jests as he follows John into his room.

John rolls his eyes, shoves him so that Sherlock falls back against the bed, "Oh shut up, you."


End file.
